1927.
Two men run through the forest in the thick of night. Eerie shards of light sift down from the stars and onto the figures, breathless, apparently running away from something. Crickets chirp and dogs snarl in the distance as we await an explanation for the men’s exodus. They look like they’re running for their lives.
It isn’t long until we discover the true objective of their pursuit—not, as we might have suspected, away from something threatening, but rather toward the sweet stylings of Ma Rainey, Mother of the Blues, calling out like an enchantress in the night. Her songs draw people, near and far, closer together.
Ma’s croons fill the air with the warm light of passion, harmonizing with excited cheers from her audience, gleeful and totally enraptured by her thunderous presence. The raspy allure of her voice requires no microphone, no spotlight—only respect. She commands the room.
It’s fitting that such a clever, exceedingly vivid opening sequence derives its impact from the subversion of expectations. It mirrors much of the rest of this movie in that way. Those opening frames are perhaps the film’s most cinematic, commencing what turns out to be a truly unpredictable story. Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom, for better or worse, is a film full of toppled assumptions—especially for those who, like me, weren’t privy to August Wilson’s source material.
This is a story about great artists navigating white power structures determined to commodify their art; monetize their gifts; control their songs.
“Only thing they care about is my voice,” Ma states matter-of-factly, albeit with a rare flicker of defeat in her eyes.
The film, directed by George C. Wolfe, unfurls over the course of a single recording session. Ma’s here to lay down some of her greatest hits, and she demands to be treated like the dignitary she is. The narrative vacillates between Ma’s quibbles with her white management and the band’s antics downstairs. While she attempts to wrangle with the studio’s owner and her own manager in preparation for the session, her fellow musicians quip and spar on the floor below.
Dialogue between the band members occupies much of the runtime. These stretches of the movie illustrate many of its greatest strengths. Watching the character of Levee (Chadwick Boseman’s final role, and his fiercest) is so hypnotic, so charming, that it’s nearly impossible to detect the volcanic tension beneath the surface. Boseman’s performance is electric.
Levee’s interactions with the other players (most notably Glynn Turman’s Toledo and Colman Domingo’s Cutler) discloses the friction between his outward charisma and the resentment he harbors inside. Contrary to his more agreeable counterparts—who just want to play good music, collect a check and get out—he operates with a sharper shade of brass. Like Ma, Levee refuses to homogenize as another cog in the white machine; he believes he’s owed everything the world has to offer—and his hubris ought to carry him further than anyone else. He predicts his songs will set the musical world on fire, and damned be the fool who disputes him.
I appreciated the individual qualities these characters, including Levee, carry to the screen. Brought together from different walks of life, and bearing distinct points of view regarding the African American experience, the musicians interact with an exciting, sometimes terrifying, chemistry. Expert camerawork and scene blocking render their sequences interactive and hypnotic. Their commonalities and divergences burn brightly in their eyes. They’re all talented, and they’re all there to play the same music, but discord constantly threatens to crack open into violence.
Boseman’s two painful monologues spill out like lava. His eruptions are tragic and cruel, reminding us that passion and fury are drawn from the same well. Aside from the film’s superb opening, it is during these sequences that the film achieves its highest cinematic grandeur.
So what, then, of Ma?
Viola Davis is one of the greatest actresses working today. She, too, devours her role with the expertise we all expect from her by now. When Ma is on screen, she mesmerizes. And yet, while the movie is called Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom, it doesn’t always feel like her film.
The idea of Ma as a character is endlessly compelling. Unfortunately, Davis lacks the screen time to fully flesh her out. This might be due to the script’s tightly packed story, which has been significantly reduced from the original play. I appreciated Ma’s uncontrollability, her courage. I appreciated her combative nature, a foil of sorts to Davis’s role in 2016’s “Fences,” another Wilson play adaptation. I appreciated her queerness. But while we get one or two truly great moments of vulnerability from Ma, they never completely satisfy. This wall she’s built up, augmented by heavy makeup and a well-groomed impudence, seems impenetrable. It’s often hard to see the humanity behind her eyes, though we know it’s there. I’m not sure the film ever lives up to the glimmering promise it makes to us when we first catch a glimpse of Ma in that shimmering tent.
Still, despite that complaint, Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom remains a powerful, tenderly made film.
In adapting the stage production, Wolfe and cinematographer Tobias Schliessler suffuse the narrative with dynamic visuals and elegant camerawork. There is a warmth to the burnished color palette of this Chicago, a radiance to the costume design, an old-fashioned opulence to the entire production. While the sets are limited, they’re rich enough in detail to bring us headfirst into this world.
Most of all, this film belongs to its cast. The story roars to life because the urgency of their words demands it. From start to finish, we are bound to them.
The film’s surprising conclusion encapsulates the absolute tragedy behind this story. If the opening sequence casts a spell, then the final moments of Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom seals its curse. All at once, we comprehend Ma’s detachment; Cutler’s resignation; Toledo’s deference; Levee’s rage.
We weep for their stolen music, and what could have been.
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Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom is available to stream on Netflix.